How We Spend Our Nights
by itzalliballi
Summary: AU on how Felicity and Oliver spend their nights.


"You know what they say about full moons." He smirks as if I should understand exactly what he means by that. If I were honest with him, I'd tell him that he lost me a long time ago. Most likely somewhere between confessing he was in love and just wanting to have some fun, the latter being emphasized with a wink. What exactly does the reflection of the moon have to do with love? How does it concern me? All of these questions are legitimate, but I bite my lip instead, because I like the fact that he thinks I understand him, even when I don't. I like that he thinks we have this unspoken pact of understanding that he formed entirely without my help.

"At least it's not Friday." I shrug because the way he keeps looking at me is starting to make me want to run for safety. Today is Wednesday. I'm not entirely sure he knows that. He doesn't seem to track time, much less days. For example, it's barely after dusk, and he's drunk enough to blame his actions on the moon- as if the moon forced him to drink the contents of the Jack Daniels bottle in his hand as he grins sheepishly at me through those heavy lids that hide his beautiful blue eyes that I swear see everything I've never told him, which are incredibly endearing to me. More so than I could begin to explain.

There's nothing practical about this newfound kinship between us. I've only known him for precisely five weeks, but I can't help but feel like I'd be ecstatic to spend all of my nights with him as he offers me coy compliments with ever so subtle invitations to follow him to his bedroom. I won't accept, especially when he continues to blame the moon. The moon must have worked for him before, but I am not his average girl. Remarkable, he'd said. He'd called me remarkable.

We met at a coffee shop at four in the morning one day. This should have been my first clue that he was going to be no good for me. But once my friend, Sara, finally abandoned my insomnia-induced ritual at the shop to go visit her girlfriend, I was left with a promise that she would return in an hour to pick me up for school. He nodded at me from across the dimmed room, and I couldn't help but smile in return. My eyes were getting heavy, and I was afraid that I'd fall asleep, so when he gestured to the empty seat across from him, I couldn't bring myself to reject his offer. I figured the waitress, if she would ever come out of the back room, would hear me if I screamed. I smiled nervously as I sat down, but once I was there, he seemed to lose interest in me, or so I thought, because still he didn't speak. He didn't even ask me for my name, even after I asked for his. I told him anyways, of course. Not because I thought he might want to know. I am not quite that naive. I didn't tell to fill the silence either. I'm sure he's learned by now that I don't mind the silence; I find it peaceful. I told because I simply wanted to hear him say it. _Felicity_. The way he said my name was like I was learning a new language, and for the first time, the language was starting to make sense. I made sense. I wanted to feel desired. Isn't that what you ask when you want to get to know someone? Inquire their name?

I was surprisingly disappointed when I left with Sara three hours later, and he hadn't ventured to ask me a single question. It did, however, give me time to memorize every detail of his mysterious face. From the prickled hair on his cheeks, the longer strands of what I assume is bleached hair, to the dark contrasting circles rounding his fluorescent aqua eyes, I noted every detail as I told myself that he was just as tortured as me. He had to be. I was surprised the next night when he gestured towards the seat again. He was banging on the keys of his laptop like they'd assaulted him, and it was almost too much to bear. I eventually offered help, but he refused. He's a mystery. I suppose he always will be. He invited me to his house before he told me his name as if it was less important of the two. His house, he said to me after several shots, is temporary; his name will be with him forever. "Oliver," he said softly with a shrug as he wiped at the liquid dropping from the corner of his mouth, "You can call me Oliver." I'm still not entirely sure that is even his real name. I accepted it regardless. It suits him somehow. In a past life, I could see him as a businessman, or at least supposed to be, but whatever life that was, he'd left it long ago.

Is he even aware that I'm still in high school? I'm only seventeen. I don't expect him to because I've never dared to tell him. I suspect he wouldn't be so forward with me. If he owns this house, I'm assuming he's old enough to know better than to get involved with me, but again, why should I be the one to inform him? He doesn't allow me to sleep, and he doesn't make me leave before I'm ready. He's possibly the best friend I've ever had. That is, if I can have a best friend that knows absolutely nothing about me.

"Fridays are over-rated." He huffs as he inhales the smoke from his ever-burning cigar. I rarely see him without one. Sometimes when he asks me if I've seen his latest pack, I want to ask him if he means his death certificate, but I think he wouldn't appreciate my sincere concern. He smoked long before me if his raspy voice is any indicator, and I'm certain he'll smoke long after I'm gone. Does he worry about things like that? I suppose he wouldn't since he doesn't know that I'll be gone from this God-forsaken town in three months. He also doesn't know that he's the only person I'll miss. That is, if he doesn't leave town in the middle of the night as I often expect. The only other person I've ever seen him talk to is a guy who seems a little older than him. His name is John, and he stops by sometimes. I feel like they have conversations in front of me without ever speaking. But neither have ever asked me to leave, and I've never offered. Sometimes John even smiles at me.

Sara doesn't understand why I spend so much time with Oliver, but to be fair to her, neither do I. She thinks it's just because, despite the fact that I've never seen him do anything active, he has a body of a Greek God, scars and all. Maybe because I envy him. He seems to have no idea on what to do with his life, nor does he seem to have any inkling on how to find out. Yet he survives, and even lives in a nice home. Bigger than I've ever even dreamed of owning. Sometimes, I want to ask him what he does during the day while I'm at school, but I resist. I figure there's a reason he's never mentioned it. He's surely spoken about everything else- except reality.

"I agree." I nod, because for once, I actually do- but I assume for completely different reasons. I should spend my Friday nights participating in school activities like my mom always pleaded for me to do. I should be at the football game, or something equally cheesy. If Sara had any say, I'd be tagging third wheel with her and her girlfriend as they ride four-wheelers through huge puddles of mud for "fun" or taking karate classes. I consider both to be forms of torture. I much prefer the solace of him and my laptop. My laptop is the gateway to the rest of my life. I'm glad that I now have him. He gives me a reason to be my normal, reclusive self. I can only handle the questions about my family, or the circles under my eyes, for so long before I blow up on someone. I may feel bad afterward, but not enough to stop me.

They say I'm not grieving properly, whatever that means. How does anyone grieve properly? It seems strange. There is nothing proper about grieving the loss of your parent, the only one you've ever known. There was no rhyme or reason for her death, and I certainly never saw it coming, but it happened all the same.

And I'm managing- no matter what anyone says. Everyone in the world seems to know but him, and sometimes I think I love him (if that were possible) simply because he doesn't look at me as if I'm Bambi. While Bambi is an accurate assessment, I don't appreciate it. I'm not a little kid, after all. I'll be gone soon, and when I get to college, no one will know of my past. I'm determined. You'd be miserable too, I want to say, if you were forced to live with a father who abandoned you when you were five years old simply because he had "other" things to do. Never lived farther than five miles from me, and not once did he try to reach me. Unfortunately for both of us, his name is on my birth certificate, so when social services got a hold of me, he was the first person they called. He is the last person I want to see, so I avoid his place as much as possible, and I don't think he minds. He doesn't know what to say to me, but at least he doesn't try either. Three more months, and I'll be gone, and he can go back to pretending that I don't exist. I don't expect it to be too hard for him. He does it now, after all. He doesn't call to check on me when I'm not home at three AM, which I appreciate because I don't think I could handle his false good intentions.

Sara thinks there's no time like the present to get to know him, and maybe if he wasn't such an asshole, maybe I could see where she's coming from. As awful as it may sound, I would have felt no loss if he'd been the one I watched die. I could have handled anyone except my mom, truthfully. She was over-protective to a nearly pathological degree, but she was my idol. She worked three jobs for as long as I can remember to make sure I had everything I needed. She was strong, and even she couldn't survive the impact of life. They say what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, so I figure that Mother Nature decided that my mom was stronger than anyone, and wanted to test this theory. She must have forgotten that although my mom was strong, she was only human. No one could have survived that.

No one except me, apparently. I survived, but it should have been her, because she had more things going for her than I do. She was 36 with the wisdom of her grandparents. She knew what things in life were important to protect. She always said she was just a waitress, but she was so much more than that. I'm envious in ways I couldn't begin to explain, even to him. She had a plan- she had a dream- she had ambition. My only ambition is to go without sleep for as long as possible. It's impossible to see past tonight when I'm petrified that somehow the nightmares are going to kill me- or worse, I will wake up and forget for just a split second that she's gone, and the heartbreak will start over again.

Doesn't he see how much of a mess I am? Doesn't he see that the silence I give is the best thing I have to offer, because if I spoke- if I told him the things I think about- he would realize that I'm just a child that can't get out of her own head? I'm just a girl trying to live in a grown-up world that I'm drowning in. I'm holding onto him the way I couldn't hold onto my mom. I was so afraid that I would hurt her worse than she already was, that I barely let myself touch her. I should have held her as tightly as possible. I should have kissed her forehead and promised her that everything was going to be alright. I should have told her that I couldn't have asked for a better mom, but I was too shocked to speak, so I was silent. I didn't hold onto her, and she died. I can't let that happen again. Because there's no amount of hacking in the world that will bring her back to life.

"Hey Felicity?" His voice brings me back to him, and I force a smile. I'm glad he spoke, because in a few more moments, I would've been an emotional wreck. He saved himself this time. That's the first time he's ever used my name, and I wonder absently if there is a reason for that. I use his at least once a day. There is a glaze in his eyes that wasn't there before, and I realize instinctively that it has nothing to do with the alcohol.

"Yeah?" I bat back tears when I place the look. It is sympathy. Apparently, I even look broken. I want to tell him not to feel sorry for me, but the words don't form because a small part of me hopes that he'll have the answers everyone else is lacking. A small part of me hopes that he'll have the cure for a broken heart. Another part of me hopes that admitting it is the first step for healing, the same way it is for alcoholics.

"Why don't you ever sleep?" I gulp as he keeps his eyes on me, and I can tell he wants an honest answer. I know I owe him that since the fact that he actually asked a real question is a sign of its importance, but I wish I could brush it off. I wish I could keep reality away a little longer. He's not the only one that tries to avoid it.

"Hurts too much." I whisper as I focus my eyes on the ground, really anywhere but him.

"Which part?" His voice is soft, and I wonder if he understands more than I give him credit for. Sounds like he understands too well.

"All of it."

"Damn Felicity. What happened to you?" Everyone except my mom calls me Liss. Mom's the only person who called me Felicity, and I can't stop the tears any longer when he uses it. I can feel my shoulders shake, but I can't make them stop, and I want nothing more than to run away. I never wanted him to see me weak. I never wanted him to see me break, but he knows none of that, so I'm only marginally surprised when he wraps his arms around me as if I'm a needy child. I hate the helpless feeling it gives me, but not enough to not cling to him, clenching his shirt in my fists.

"She died. She wasn't supposed to die." The words seem to be unable to stop tumbling out now, so I just give in. He asked after all. "I had to watch her die." My tears are soaking his shirt, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"Who died?" His warm breath tickles my ear as the smell of the whiskey engulfs my senses, which somehow makes this entire moment seem easier than it really is. I suddenly wish I was as intoxicated as he is, but it's too late for that.

"My mom." I pause as the reality hits me again. "I was taking too long in the convenience store. She'd been waiting in the car. She had a date for the first time in ages, a night off for the first time in ages, and she still had to drop me off at Sara's, but I wasn't thinking about her. All I was thinking was that I couldn't decide between Cheetos or Doritos. Stupid potato chips. I was obsessed over the choice as if it was life or death. It shouldn't have been life or death; it wouldn't have been if I'd just made up my mind. But I didn't- couldn't- and so she came in to speed along the process. It was so stupid. I hardly noticed the guys that came in behind her. They weren't wearing ski-masks, they didn't have their guns waving in the air. They didn't even look much older than me. They seemed harmless. Normal. Average. They seemed like everyone else in the store." I can feel his fingers run through my hair, which makes me anxious because it reminds me even more of her, but I don't tell him that because I know if I stop the story, I won't be able to finish it.

"Then the alarm went off, and suddenly everything went fuzzy. It was like tunnel vision once the alarm sounded, and I forgot about the chips, all I could see was the guy pointing his gun at me telling me to get down on the floor. He said he didn't want to hurt anyone, but even then I didn't believe him, and I was too shocked to obey him. That's when my mom yanked on my arm, pulling me behind her, trying to pull me to at least my knees, but I guess the guy didn't realize what she was doing, because he shot her. One shot in the wrist that was reaching out for me, literally centimeters away from my hand. The other one directly to her heart. Everything went dark then. I don't know if I screamed, but I know it was nothing intelligible if I did. The guys ran out- they left. I didn't know what to do. You always think you'd know what to do in a situation like that, but there was so much blood, and I was in shock, so I just stared at her. I was so afraid if I touched her, it would cause her more pain, so I didn't. I just cried. She was gone by the time the ambulance arrived."

"It's not your fault, Felicity."

"It should've been me." I finally collapse into him, my knees losing the ability to stand.

"You're wrong." He whispers, lifting me up bridal style before sitting down, cradling me in his lap. "You're alive for a reason. We are alive for a reason." I feel his lips brush against my forehead, but I'm too exhausted to warn him of what he's doing. Maybe I want it, even when it's probably wrong. Maybe he's what I need. "She was your mom. There was no choice to make." He whispers softly as his lips lower until they meet mine, and just in this moment, the world goes dark again, and the pain is gone.


End file.
